


Candid

by antspaul



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Chris and Victor BRIEFLY have a thing, Chris' Mystery Man - Freeform, F/M, Headcanon, M/M, Mainly because new info about mystery man came out AFTER I wrote this, Non-Explicit Sex, Slight canon deviation, Young!Chris - Freeform, like its 2 parapraphs don't worry, will definitely be AU by season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9782069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antspaul/pseuds/antspaul
Summary: Chris, his mystery man, Victor, and all of the bronze medals, promises, and Yuris in between.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for thatbandchick39 over on tumblr as a part of the 2017 Yuri on Ice Secret Valentine Exchange. Cece said she loves Chris, and I went a little overboard. I probably should have rewatched YoI a few more times before attempting to make up Chris’ backstory, buuuttttt I didn’t so here you go. 17k of nonsense. Hope you enjoy Cece xx

This story starts, as many stories do, at the barre.

 

A tittering piano melody echoes off the dance studio’s smooth wooden floors, setting a tempo for the rhythmic _pat, pat, pat_ of little canvas ballet shoes on little feet.

“ _T_ _ondu, relevé, tondu, plié_ ,” Madame Candise chants, sharply clapping her hands with the beat. Her eyes scan the eight young boys in front of her as she expertly searches their forms for any imperfections and presses her lips tightly together. “Christophe, don’t lean into your _plié._ Look strong, darling.” Chris’s face burns and she turns her attention to the boy in front of him. “David, beautiful job my dear.”

Frowning, Chris straightens his back and stares at the back of David’s head, envious and in awe of David’s effortless talent, when he himself must work twice as hard to achieve anything. It isn’t fair.

The music cuts out, and Madame Candise instructs the boys in a floating voice to get on the floor and stretch for a moment while she talks to her guest. The guest is a middle-aged man wearing wide glasses and a curious position who Madame flirts helplessly with. As she floats over to discuss matters with him in a voice that isn’t nearly as quiet as she thinks, David sits next to Chris on the floor and makes a silly face at her antics.

Chris giggles quietly, putting his feet together, and bends over. All eight boys remain silent as they stretch in hopes of catching a spare word or two of Madame and the guest’s conversation, but they don’t get much. Chris thinks, he hears his name, and maybe David’s but he can’t know for sure.

The man, they were told, coaches ice skaters. It is not known why an ice skating coach is observing Madame Candise’s third year ballet class other than the fact that he is an old associate of hers.

He stays a little while longer, observing their splits and across the floor exercises _._

When it’s Chris’s turn to _grand jeté_ , he tries his hardest to make his leap soar not because of the man’s eyes, but because of David’s. He wants badly to impress his friend, the most talented person he knows, because it makes David happy to see him succeed.

He completes the jump, putting as much height into is as possible. When his feet hit the ground with more force than preferred, the man smiles and beckons Madame Candise over, softly saying something into her ear.

Candise nods, and instructs Chris to run the jump again. So Chris does. This apparently satisfies the man, because after he quickly whispers something to Madame, the subject isn’t brought back up.

This happens a few more times, sometimes to David and other boys, but mostly to Chris. Then, ten minutes before class ends, the man thanks the children for allowing him into their practice time, and leaves. Madame Candise runs the rest of class like he was never even there. In fact, the only indication that anything happened comes after class.

Chris walks next to David as they head towards the front door of the large old house home to Madame’s ballet studio. David yammers on about some cartoon he watched the night before, maybe Power Rangers or something. Chris doesn't pay attention to his words, mesmerized instead by David's bright smile and the way his face contorts in enthusiasm. He almost misses Madame Candise when she calls for him.

Chris sends David an apologetic smile as he back treads to her office. David waves it away and promises to wait for him.

“Close the door behind you, my dear,” Madame Candise instructs. Chris obeys and sits in one of the fancy larger seats in front of her desk. He tries not to sink back from the sheer force of being alone in a room with her.

Madame tells him without prelude, “You are one of my most talented students, Chris.”

Her words shoot straight down Chris's spine and he finds himself several inches taller as a result. “Thank you,” he breathes, truly grateful. But he's sure her praise is misplaced. “Is this about the guest today?”

Madame Candise nods curtly and digs through the many papers on her massive desk. “You're very perceptive, Christophe.” She finds the right document and flattens out the wrinkles. As she scribbles a note in the corner, Madame continues, “Have you ever considered ice skating?”

Chris doesn't immediately answer because that is the very last thing he thought she would say and he isn't sure how to respond. “No,” he says finally. “Why?”

Madame clears her throat and hands him the paper, which is a flyer from a local skating club advertising novice classes. “The man who observed your class today was my old friend Josef. I know he doesn't look like much, but in his time he was a champion on the ice.”

Nostalgia taints her familiar words. Chris remembers that the age-worn woman in front of him used to be one of the most formidable ballerinas in the world before the wrong injury at the wrong time proved fatal to her career. The later years of a professional dancer are extremely volatile and short-lived.

“I brought him in to see my most advanced class of children your age,” she explains. “I wanted his opinion on which of you are best suited for the ice.”

“Me,” Chris realizes. “How do you know I'd be a good ice skater?”

Madame smiles and gestures to the pair in his hand. “Why don't you see for yourself?”

Chris looks down at the schedule, then back up at Madame's piercing green eyes. She goes onto tell him that getting anywhere would require much hard work at first, and he would still attend her ballet classes. But he isn't sure, because David wouldn't be there.

“I’m talk to my mom about it,” he says, stuffing the paper into his red Capezio bag. “Thank you, Madame Candise.”

When he arrives back in the lobby, David is sitting on a chair, swinging his legs back and forth with childlike impatience. He perks up when he sees Chris. “What did Madame Candise want?” he eagerly asks.

Chris shrugs and they walk side-by-side out to the parking lot, where their parents wait for them. “I don't know. She thought I should start ice skating.”

David's mouth drops. He stops and grabs the other boy’s hands. “That’s _so cool!_ ” he squeals. “You have to do it. Promise you will!”

Chris promises the first of many promises he makes to David.

This one he keeps.

  


Chris practices his skating almost everyday for the next three years. As Madame Candise promised, it doesn't immediately come easy. But after persistent hard work and private lessons, he's skating rings around the rink and small jumps without a problem, with ardent support from David of course, who attends as many practices as be can.

By the time he turns nine, Josef Karpisek decides he's ready for higher level coaching.

He spends the year working on technical components that he'll need to master if he wants to compete in the Junior division in four years’ time. It seems like a long ways away, but the triple Salchow isn't mastered overnight, Josef reminds him.

He catches onto the toe loop quickly, and understands the difficult Axel, but after six months of incessant trying, he hasn't landed a single Lutz.

One practice, Chris reaches a low point. After what must be his fiftieth attempt, he doesn't even bother to stand up from his defeated position on the ice. Josef checks to make sure that he isn't seriously injured and then tells the boy to take his time. They'll take a short break before trying again.

For the first time since Chris started skating, he wishes David didn't show up to his practices. All he must see these days is Chris falling down, anyway. What's the point?

He leans his head on the barricade and closes his eyes in exhaustion and frustration and doesn't even notice the other boy until he clears his throat overhead.

His eyes pop open as he looks up to see David standing over him.

“Your butt is going to freeze if you stay there,” David informs him, wearing a goofy smile.

Chris sighs and folds his arms. “Who cares? I’m never going to get the jump. I ought to just quit.”

David’s smile vanishes. The boy looks sad. “Don't do that. I think you're really good.”

Rolling his eyes, Chris says, “Why? All I do lately is fall.”

“That's because all you do lately is practice a jump you haven't landed yet,” David reasons, shrugging. “You’re still really good at toe loops- you can even get to rotations in! That's better than most skaters our age.”

If it weren't David, he wouldn't believe him. But because it is, Chris forces himself to at least consider his words for his friend’s sake.

Chris hardens with resolve and pulls himself up to face David. “Okay,” he announces. “Okay, I'll try the Lutz. And I'll get it!”

“Promise that you won't give up,” says David as he places a hand over Chris's and gives it a squeeze. “You'll land a quadruple Lutz by your senior debut.”

He nods even though the goal is loudly at least. “I will,” he vows.

Two days later, he manages to land a single Lutz. His footwork needs work, and he wobbled on the landing, but David and Josef clap anyway and congratulate him.

David is so excited for his friend that he kisses him on the cheek and suddenly Chris is warm. Hot enough to melt the ice beneath him. He captures the feeling, never lets it go, and pours it into his skating.

  


A year later, David vanquishes the fire he lit inside Chris with two simple words.

“I'm moving,” he says, and Chris knows everything is over.

“No, you can't,” Chris manages to gasp through his shock. Because David keeps him on the ice. And the ice is all there is to Chris these days. Without David, he is nothing. “Why?”

David shrugs dejectedly. “My mom wants to be closer to her family, I guess.” He doesn't sound like he understands, or wants to understand. “And my dad is gonna teach at a college in America somewhere.”

Chris's head spins. “How much longer do you have here?”

“Two weeks, I think,” David answers, miserable. His eyes shine dangerously, bearing tears so Chris envelops him in his arms, for the first time offering _David_ comfort rather than vice versa.

“We'll spend every second until then together, okay?” Chris promises, and David nods, sniffling.

Chris cancels a few practices with Josef, both to spend time with David and because in light of this new development, he doesn't have much motivation to skate.

The boys spend every possible waking moment together, watching cartoons, or playing video games, or just talking. They even skip school one day to watch a movie. No one else shows up see it, so they have the theater to themselves. David tells Chris he prefers it that way.

Chris enjoys himself, and David's company, but knowing that everything has a time limit puts so much pressure on them to have fun. It feels like the last week of summer vacation. Not so different than the last week, except the impending promise of change.

Chris's mom allows him to accompany David to the airport to say goodbye. They stand in the terminal, clutching each other tightly until the last moment.

A teary-eyed David pulls back first and takes a breath, before delivering his last words. “Promise you won't forget me, okay? Even when you're the most famous skater in the world.”

Chris almost laughs at his silly proclamation, but promises nonetheless. He knows this one he can keep, as long as he's on the ice. Chris couldn't forget David even if he wanted to.

  


With his inspiration now residing in New Brunswick, New Jersey, Chris's presentation component drops while his technical score improves with practice. The latter allows him to succeed competitively, but by the time he makes his junior debut, it is evident that something must be done.

Chris lacks much motivation to get better, and coasts by in the Junior division on technical ability alone, although he’s far from placing in most events. He still loves the ice, but Chris isn't the type of person who can pull inspiration out of nowhere.

Performing at an acceptable level takes an increasing amount of effort, and though Chris loves the ice, by the start of his first Senior season, fatigue almost overpowers his desire to skate.

Still. The lingering promise he made six years ago keeps him in the game. So, in a decision that baffles his coach and fans alike, Chris decides his first year in the Senior division will also be his last.

Chris isn’t selected, but Josef drags him to the Grand Prix Final anyway in a last-ditch effort to inspire him. This year, championship is held in Paris, France. Chris vaguely remembers the city from competing in a minor event a few months earlier, but the his memory of the competition is hazy. After a nasty defeat in a competition he felt no passion for, he mainly slept while the other skaters sightsaw.

The men's single performers of interest are as follows: Karl Schäfer and Gustav Hügel from Austria, Oskar Uhlig from Germany, Stanick Bernadis from France, Ulrich Grenander from Sweden, Georgi Popovich from Russia, and the legendary skating prodigy Victor Nikiforov also from Russia. Chris never bothered to watch Victor skate live before, although they've attended one or two of the same events this year. He knows of his skill from reputation only. A few girls at his skating club fancy him for his sharp good looks and memorable choreography.

They say Victor Nikiforov hypnotizes the audience before he strikes his opening pose. If that's true, Chris is glad he didn't qualify for the final. How could he compete?

The first five skaters aren't all that memorable. All are highly technically trained, and one or two look like they're forcing emotion into each movement. Of them all, Georgi Popovich an impression on Chris. With his elaborate costume and makeup and excessive facial expression, his memorable eccentricity intrigues the audience, at least, even if he scores low technically.

Mostly the skaters do well, but no one makes history that night. They're practically indistinguishable from the legions of skaters before them.

And then Victor steps onto the ice and a hush falls over the crowd. By the first notes of his short program music, the entire audience sits on edge of their seats. The song, specifically written for Victor, tells in lethargic French a story of lost love found again. Chris surmises this from the little French he understands from growing up in Switzerland. Victor's movements tell the rest with utter sexuality. No, that isn't the right word. _Sensuality._ The music swells, the lovers reunite, but Victor's movements still communicate the permanent anguish of innocence lost.

Chris hopes, when he reunites with David, their story will end vastly different.

The second the song fades out and Victor strikes his final pose, the crowd goes absolutely _wild_. He scores well above his personal best, and unless he makes a serious error in his free skate tomorrow night, the title is his.

Predictably, he does not. For his free skate, Victor chose an alluring string melody that lulled and ebbed with his sweeping movements. Every combination, step sequence, and jump glides perfectly into the next, feeling more like an Impressionist painting than choreographed routine. Victor communicates betrayal and longing congruent to his short program’s themes, muted but emotional. His performance is exquisite in a way Chris had never seen before. As if Victor skated to seduce the ice itself.

When Victor finishes, Chris can’t think of a single thing he could do better and he _wants_ that. Maybe he first fell in love with David. But it is that moment that he falls in love with the ice.

If Victor is the Prince of skating, that makes the audience his adoring subjects. A little girl even crowns him with a wreath of blue roses over his long silver hair, and countless other spectators throw roses and stuffed animals for Victor, so much so that he has to swerve to avoid the gifts.

Victor still dons the crown during the awards ceremony. He waves and smiles from the place on the podium where Chris has never been, but yearns to reach, and as he leaves the rink, Chris drags Josef closer to the gate so that he might speak with him.

“Hi Victor!” he yells as the gold medalist walks by with unshakable swagger. “Congratulations!”

To Chris’ surprise, Victor hears him and looks up. “And what is your name?”

“Christophe Giacometti!” Chris answers, amazed Victor would even spare him a thought. He imagines what it’s like to be Victor, to be so confident and inspiring and _effortless_. What’s it like to have that power over someone? What’s it like to have no one looking down on you?

When the older boy says, “I’ll see you at the Worlds” and throws him a flower, Chris realizes how naive he was to think that this could be it. This year isn’t the last of his career; it’s the _first_ . One day, Chris is going to skate against Victor Nikiforov and _win_. There can only be one.

  


Josef brightens at Chris’ newfound enthusiasm, but wastes no time in reminding him that motivation does not a winner make. He needs inspiration now more than ever. What distinguishes him from the many other Swiss skaters vying for a spot at the Grand Prix Final?

Well, his soaring quad Lutz, for one. But an impressive jump isn't all he needs to score well. Chris spends his sixteenth year desperately searching for inspiration, wearing several hats along the way, but none resonate with him.

That year he also grows six inches and dyes his undercut brown. He's growing up now. Things are different than they used to be. Things are different and he's trying, really he is.

He attempts to use his frustration as his inspiration, and while it doesn't work, really, it gets him the presentation points he needs to advance on from domestic competitions to the Grand Prix series.

His first event, Skate America, takes place in Reading, Pennsylvania, less than two hours away from New Brunswick, where David lives. 188.45 km. The distance, although closer to David than Chris has been in years, still feels infinite because David doesn’t know, and because David forgot.

Chris never even heard from him after their departure. Sure, David’s mom called via phone booth to say they landed safely, but other than, total radio silence for six prolonged years. While he understood communication was difficult, especially in the first few months after he moved, but David still could, if he really wanted to. This hurts more than any skating mishap ever has.

Chris reminds himself that David had no such obligation to contact him ever again. Unlike Chris, David never made any promises. If Chris could change anything in his past, it would be this.

The thought weighs heavy on his mind as a taxi brings him from the airport to his hotel, a nice establishment a mile away from the rink and a few blocks down from a cinema. As they pass the brightly illuminated building, a memory tugs at his brain of the last week that he saw David, when they skipped school to watch a movie alone. David always preferred privacy. Chris didn’t care, but he wanted what David wanted.

Chris ponders seeing a movie. He decides that, if he performs well in the upcoming competition, he’ll ask Josef to stay in Reading the Monday after, and he’ll watch one then.

The simple intuistic bargain pushes him during his performance, and he actually skates quite well, minus one or two flubbed jumps. His short program receives a 78.60- below his personal best, but higher than his average score last year- and his free skate gets a 173.87. The biggest achievement, however, comes in the presentation category. Apparently, something manifested in Chris’ skating, something he didn’t know existed within himself, and the judges actually _commend_ his self-expression.

After rewatching his performance alongside Josef, Chris catches a look in his eye, a thrust to his arm, a sweep of his leg and realizes with a laugh that he performed well tonight because he wanted to go to the _movies_. He tells Josef and Josef starts laughing, too.

“If I knew going to the cinema motivated you so, last year would have been a lot different,” Josef tells him between bouts of deep-bellied laughter. They sit in Josef’s room, watching his laptop on a king-sized bed.

With that comment, the day’s exhaustion hits Chris full-force. He yawns and excuses himself to go shower and sleep. Josef smiles and congratulates Chris again on a job well done.

“This is one step closer to becoming the great skater I know you can be,” Josef says solemnly, patting Chris lightly on the back. “Go, and rest. You don’t want to fall asleep during your show tomorrow.”

He winks. Chris thanks him and shuts the door quietly, tip toeing back to his own room a few doors down.

The movie he chooses to watch is a recent release about a young boy using his music to find his parents. The plot conjures images of Victor’s performance at the European championships last spring, with his epigraphic portrayal of love lost. Slightly different undertones are present, but the comparison still stands.

As Chris expected, the movie theater is all but empty on a Monday morning at 11 o’clock. A single other occupant- male, young- sits towards the front where Chris can’t see their face. Perhaps the man is from Skate America too, the brother or boyfriend of one of the other skaters, who decided to watch a movie while they waited on their flight.

Chris deflates when he sees him. He’d hoped that the theater would be completely empty, like it was with him and David. But no such luck.

Then the room darkens fully and the movie starts.

He knows it’s irrational, but something about the other man in the room unsettles him. There’s something familiar about him- maybe in his hair, or his shoulders, or the hand that clasps over his mouth when he laughs…

It clicks.

Chris forces his legs to stay still, his mind not to race, and he barely concentrates on the rest of the movie. He honestly feels a little disappointed in himself for not noticing it further. After all, it wasn’t so long ago he could tell who he was by the mere sound of his breath.

When the movie ends, Chris purposely bumps into the man on the way to the lobby. The man turns around with a flick of his long brown hair, and that confirms it. It’s been six years, but Chris would know that face anywhere.

“ _David_ ,” he breathes with all the sincerity in the world. He doesn't question why David is in Reading. He's afraid that, if he does, he'll wake up and it will all be a dream. Blame it on serendipity.

The young man apologizes, then pauses, reaching a similar conclusion. “Chris?” he asks with wonder and disbelief etched into his voice.

Chris nods, eyes stinging with sudden tears. He reaches out to grab David’s arms, something tangible to prove this is reality. “It’s- it’s really you, isn’t it? I never thought I’d see you again.”

David smiles widely.  Some things never change. “I didn’t, either. I was going to call, but--” his face darkens, and he pulls Chris into a hug.

Chris savors the moment he always wanted but somehow never expected. He's found him again. Hope burns in his stomach and he thinks of all the things that changed this very moment, and the whole wide future opening up just for him, and he doesn't feel the need to rush things. Patience has always been his strong suit.

David treats him to lunch. They talk about everything from school to Chris’ mom to the _Sopranos_ , but they never bring up skating, or whatever forces of the universe brought them together that day. David, Chris can tell, has had a much more traditional childhood than he has. He talks and dresses like the average American teenager, while Chris himself is stuck between independent adult and naive adolescent.

Somewhere in the midst of the afternoon, Chris can't hold in the unfathomable happiness in anymore. It escapes him. Tucked away in the corner of a bookstore listening to David discuss a recent novel, surprises himself by laying one on him, shocked even more a few seconds later when David reciprocates.

Pulling back from the kiss, Chris searches David's face and says, “Tell me I'm not the only one who enjoyed that.”

David grins and kisses him again in response, leaning into the kiss. He slips his soft tongue through Chris’s lips, causing Chris to moan in surprise.  His hands wrap naturally around David's stomach, softer than Chris's own but warm. While he throws an arm over Chris's neck, David tilts his head to taste as much of him as possible and suddenly the bookstore feels much, much too hot.

A moment into the kiss, Chris pulls back again and whispers, “I have a private hotel room. We can continue this there.”

He raises his eyebrows and David nods eagerly. Still clinging onto Chris's neck with one hand, he strokes his cheek with another. “Can we get there in ten minutes?”

  


It sounds corny as hell, but when he enters David, it feels as though some long, six-year cycle completes and God recreates the world. When he comes, Let There Be Light, and when David comes, he is the sun.

He collapses on top of David after the deed is done, breathing hard and head swaying from residual ecstasy. He bites his head into the crook of his neck, rubbing his nose over the little red marks darkening by the second. He feels every breath David breathes and he wonders how he got so lucky.

After a period of silence, just when Chris thinks David must be asleep, the other boy whispers into bright night, “I watched you skate last night.”

David sounds like he's telling a secret, the precarious kind only whispered under the haze of post-coital judgement lapse.

Chris sits up and stares. “You didn't tell me.”

David shrugs and gives a refill smile. He reaches out to caress Chris's jaw line, then down his neck to the matching red dots. “I was embarrassed. It got me a little flustered,” he admits, but Chris doesn't understand.

“I didn't know you knew I still skated. And flustered? That performance wasn't worthy.”

David almost looks hurt and he frowns. “I've watched every public competition you've been in since I moved, Chris. And besides,” his eyes brighten and adopt meaning. “You’re intoxicating,” he says lowly. “You effect _me_ ,” talking clearly about more than his sense of self, “Like no one else.”

And Chris is reborn again. He's suddenly equipped with such a power, such _inspiration,_ he knows his skating with never be the same again.

Chris tackles David in another natural kiss. “Thank you,” he says, close to tears.

David pulls back, face loving if not confused. “Hey,” he says softly, paying the pillow next to him. Chris lays flat down and drowsiness starts to take over  “Promise you'll never forget this moment.”

“Never,” vows Chris and his eyes flicker shut.

  


At the hour where the sun sits just being the horizon’s reach, Chris wakes up to a soft buzzing in his hotel room, and sees David sitting up next to him in bed, speaking quietly into a phone in the dim light.  

“What's happening, David?” He asks softly.

David turns sharply, looking surprised. Covering the microphone on his cell, he offers him a small smile. “Go back to sleep, Chris.”

Because his mind is too incoherent to think, Chris obliges, a mistake he will regret for the rest of his life.

When he wakes up a few hours later, David is gone. The bed next to him is void is all warmth and even the room holds a new chill.

He briefly entertains the thought that he dreamed it up, like he feared: in his reach and then simply not. He never collected David's phone number. The scenario feels dangerously similar to the one that took place six years ago, only with no formal goodbye or closure. Possibility blinded him to reality, and now he is back to where he started, with less innocence and faith in the world.

 

He holds onto the image of David in the twilight, at the most appropriate moment, the sun just teasing the sky.

 

One distinct difference exists between the first time he lost David and now: back then, the loss obstructed his success, completely blinding him to any natural talent or niche he had in the figure skating world. But Chris lets the encounter electrify him.

_Intoxicating. You effect me like no one else._

_Like no one else._

So sure in himself, David’s self-actualization infects everyone around him. His belief in Chris is contagious. Never in his life has Chris regarded himself venereal, but David has declared it so, and so it is.

In leaving him, David planted the seeds of rebirth, sensuous and unchaste, along with an aversion to feeling the sour disappointment of losing something just in his grasp.

Every skater is known for something. If Chris can't surprise people like Victor, or intrigue them with unapologetic peculiarity like Georgi, then he will seduce them.

And, now that he knows David watches him perform, he will seduce him too, and David will come back to him eventually. So the bargaining begins. If he beats Victor and wins the Grand Prix Final, he tells himself, David will see and come back to him. He makes a silent promise to David that this will happen.

When he discusses his planned theme, Josef and his technical coach shift from foot to foot, uneasy with a minor forming his image around sexuality.

“You’ve never had a theme before, but if that's what you really want, then we can discuss it,” says Josef mildly, humoring Chris. “Perhaps a different subject matter. What about another form of love? Unconditional love might suit you.”

Chris plants his feet into the ground and refuses to budge. “I'm not a naive 15 year-old anymore, Josef,” Chris replies, bristling. He uncaps his skates. “This is the theme I want, and it's the theme I'm going to win with. Let me prove it to you.”

Seeing his determination, Josef considers his proposition. “Alright, Chris. You know I only want the best for you. If you want to play the role of seducer, then show me.”

Chris sets his jaw and starts the music, a segment of a sultry, bluesy cover of an old song. He choreographed a small showcase to it for this very purpose, not bothering to include any difficult jumps. Josef knows he can land jumps; today isn't about that.

He puts as much sex appeal into his execution as possible, never forgetting to glance lustfully at the non-existent audience, or to let his hands linger on the finer parts of his body. The image of David beneath him sticks in his throat and propels him forward into all of his step sequences and spins in one of the most charged performances of his life.

When the music cuts out and Chris comes to a close, breathing heavy, Josef simply smiles, nodding, and Chris understands.

 _He's coming into himself._  Creating definition to what used to be blurred lines and insecurity.

And damn if this isn't the start of something great.

  


He spends his seventeenth year perfecting his charisma. The secret, he finds after much trial and error, is to let it consume him day and night like a raging fever. Sexually deviant Ice Chris merges with patient, career-oriented Normal Chris, and soon the two are indistinguishable. He almost mourns the loss of Normal Chris until he refocuses on his priorities (Win, first. David, second. Routine adolescence, third). He doesn't have time for compartmentalization, anyway.

Soon, the act becomes second nature. Chris _likes_ how it feels to be sexy, desired. The times he lost David impacted his self-esteem more than anything else. Left him feeling not wanted. This helps to heal this wounds, if just superficially for now. Maybe this isn't who he was, but this is who he is _now_ and no one can contest that.

After a year of competing in mostly minor domestic competitions in order to build up his performance, Chris reenters the normal skating circuit his eighteenth year with a sort of fiery zealousness that leaves his fellow competitors baffled and audiences wowed. Victor cracks an amused smile.  Commentators wonder aloud where he came from, and how his skating improved so drastically in a short while.

When asked, Chris simply replies, “I found my inspiration, and the rest clicked.” Then he'll wink to add effect.

His answer doesn't satisfy them, but none can deny its truth. He blazes through domestic competitions and moves on quickly to the Grand Prix series. He scores fourth in the Rostelecom Cup, and second in the Trophee de France. He makes the Final by a hair's length, beating Georgi Popovich by a mere .76 points to secure the sixth spot.

The ISI holds the Grand Prix Final in Toronto that year. Chris and Josef arrive in Canada a few days early to give him as much time to prepare as possible. The decision does nothing to quell the jitters that shake his hands prior to his first appearance.

Since he was the last to qualify for the Final, Chris performs first. As they stand at the gate two minutes before he goes on, Josef clenches Chris's hands to still them, and looks Chris square in the eyes.

“Focus, Chris,” he instructs evenly. “Don't think about any of the skaters. None of them can do what you do, the way you do it.”

Chris nods, unconvinced. “Of course.”

Josef purses his lips and pauses.  Then he says, “When you first told me your idea for this season, I was skeptical. It seemed to come out of nowhere, so I didn't know if you could pull it off. But you have more than proven me wrong. You've proven _yourself._ Whatever it was that inspired this change--” he sighs, “And I don't care what it was, that isn't my business-- keep it in your line of sight.”

With that, their time runs out and Chris must take the ice for his short program. Taking a deep breath, he assumes his opening pose and tries to calm down. He's never had severe performance anxiety before, but then again, he's never had a performance this huge before. Knowing that David is likely at home right now watching him somehow makes it even more nerve-racking, as he wants every single detail about this to be perfect.

Then the music starts, and he forces his mind to empty of all negative thoughts, and concentrate on what he internally calls _giving the music to David_.

He chose a jazzy and melancholy cover of Nature Boy. It's his job as a skater to communicate the music through his movements. Since the song communicates sexual yearning, so must every jump, spin, and step sequence. In the middle of the song, when the bass playing becomes disorganized and borderline incoherent, he must put anguish and frustration into every move he makes.

He becomes so wrapped up in communicating his message to David, in fact, that he accidentally turns his Quad Lutz, the only quad in his program, into a double. The flub trips up the rest of his performance, which is noticeably worse than the rest of it.

By the time the somber female singer ekes out _The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return,_ Chris is overwhelmed with emotion, like he did when he leaned in to kiss David, months ago. Through the last jazzy riff of the song, he throws himself into a sit-spin with all the yearning tristesse in the world. The bass player strums a powerful stinger chord and Chris lops his arms out in practiced languidity. The music stops, Chris heaves with breath, and the audience roars.

When he leaves the ice, he feels satisfied. Although his mistakes collectively screwed him over for a medal, the performance he just gave inspired the audience. He just hopes that it reached the one member of the audience he meant it to.

Chris delivers a more thoroughly solid performance for his free skate. He doesn’t tap into whatever trance he entered during his short program, so his presentation scores lower than it did the night before. But that’s usual for Chris. His motivation tends to dwindle after his short program. In the end, he scores a total of 270.83 points, significantly higher than his personal best. Winning fourth place, he still has a ways to go before he can beat Victor, who won gold for the second year in a row, but progress is progress no matter what.

He wonders if David saw.

At the banquet that year, Victor steals the show. Sponsors and judges alike hound the gilded record-holder like he’s meat and they haven’t eaten in days. Everyone wants to talk to Victor before anyone else, Chris notes with green-eyed distaste. And why? It’s not like Victor has anything particularly original, or intelligent for that matter, to say. If it was Chris--

Josef clears his throat next to Chris and offers him a glass of champagne. “Don’t be jealous, Chris,” he chastises as Chris sips the drink idly. “That could be you one day.”

Chris snorts. “I know that, old man,” he replies. “Everyone loves to talk about how surprising and original he is on the ice. But the second he steps off of the ice, he’s just boring and unchanging as you could be. It’s not fair.”

Josef turns around and grabs another champagne flute, this one for himself. “It disappoints me that you would talk down on someone who motivates you so much. Especially considering you alike you are.”

This startles Chris and he jerks around to look curiously at Josef. Victor babbles on about nothing, maybe his poodle, ten meters away. “What do you mean by that?”

Josef shrugs and downs the flute in one shot. “You both live only on the ice. What else could there be?”

  


Throughout his 19th year, Chris takes Josef’s words to heart and maintains a friendly rivalry with Victor. While they both sustain an amiable air at competitions and banquets, the undeniable tension of competitions restricts the bond from growing into actual camaraderie. That Chris will have to beat Victor one day if he truly wants gold has long been a fact of life.

At the Grand Prix Final, Chris places fourth and Victor wins gold again. Both improved their scores by at least ten points, a fact that frustrates Chris to no end. When will the gap between them shorten? How much more can Victor go until he runs out of space? The questions seem unanswerable, rhetoric, as Victor’s prestige and talent only seems to grow by the day. Once skaters reach their twenties, their abilities are supposed to stagnate. But then again, when did the rules of skating ever seem to apply to Victor?

Chris’ fixation on beating Victor blurs his focus as the time since he last saw David increases. He soon finds it difficult to do what once came naturally, conjuring up images of David, naked and holy and writhing underneath him. Though he pulls through the season, by his second Grand Prix banquet, he doesn’t feel alluring at all, and knows that if something inside him doesn’t change, he’ll slip into obscurity once again while Victor continues his ascent.

Most people mill about in the tightly-packed banquet hall, sipping lightly on their drinks and picking at the small food platters waiters carry around on their shoulders. Victor’s there again, along with his rinkmate Georgi Popovich, the crazy one. He looks insanely bored and exhausted, and like he’d rather set fire to himself rather than speak to the old, aging French coach in front of him.

Chris relates. He spends too much time next to the champagne station, drinking the caterers out of house and home in a move to lower his inhibitions that’s a little too intentional. He catches Victor’s eye from  across the room. The gold medalist excuses himself from the conversation, leaving Georgi alone with the old man.

They don’t say anything as Chris scans the room, making sure Josef is sufficiently occupied. He grabs Victor’s hand discretely and drags him out of the room into the single enclosed family bathroom down the hall. Chris tries to read Victor’s face but it’s hardened and indecipherable, perhaps on purpose. Perhaps Victor knows more about people than he lets on.

So maybe Victor expects it or maybe _he’s_ the one who’s surprised now, but he almost doesn’t react when Chris shoves him against the wall and kissed him, except to open his mouth for Chris’ greedy tongue.

The encounter lasts five minutes, maybe seven or eight. There’s a whole lot of grunting and hissing and biting and not a whole lot of emotions. Chris enters Victor and thrusts two, three, four times before unraveling Victor, who comes with a muted gasp. Victor pants noiselessly against his chest for ten seconds. Chris watches him struggle to catch his breath before Victor clears his throat, wipes off their bellies with a paper towel, pulls up his underwear and pants, and exits the bathroom without a word.

Unsatisfied and confused, Chris finishes himself off and straightens his own clothes. When he rejoins the rest of his peers at the banquet, Victor has already left. Josef seems to be the only one who noticed their absence, but he doesn’t comment. He simply raises his eyebrows and shakes his head.

Chris doesn’t see him again until the European championships. He accidentally catches Victor’s eye during warm-ups. Victor merely nods, then runs through a difficult step sequence from his program. Victor wins the championships. Chris places fourth. David watches from America, maybe. But the idea of David starts to fade from his mind. Chris struggles to reinforce it.

At a small gathering of the competitors after the event, Victor pointedly looks away from him as Chris leads Oskar Uhlig away to his hotel room, and then at Worlds the night before their free skates when he replaces Oskar with Maxwell Hunt. He’s not sure why he starts to sleep around. Okay, maybe he does. He realizes, laying next to a pair skater whose name he forgot, that no amount of nondescript male bodies devoting themselves to him for an hour between the sheets will do nothing to satisfy his desire for one specific body. If that were the case, Victor would have cured him of his withdrawal. Instead, he left him itching for more.

In a way, this fuels his skating more than David’s presence ever did. He blows away his free skate at the World Championships a month after his twentieth birthday. He’s in line to place fourth (again) if Victor makes more than 190 on his free skate, a trivial accomplishment for him. He wins gold by a landslide Victor’s 22, which mean he’s been skating for 12 years, but his body doesn’t seem to know it.

…Until it does.

During a routine exhibition filled with humor and confidence, Victor sheds his suit jacket on the ice and throws it aside. This receives a boisterous laugh from the audience, and lighthearted scorn from the commentators. He waves to the crowd and skates forward into a quadruple Salchow, not watching the ice beneath him. He lands with one foot on the jacket and his leg slips, falling hard on the ice face-first with his other leg trapped unnaturally beneath him.

Excited shrieks from the audience turn into shocked silence as Victor lies motionless. Confusion spreads like vapor over the spectators and commentators alike. After a few seconds, Victor slowly picks his head up, and sighs of relief echo throughout the rink. But it is inherently clear that Victor is not fine. Paramedics rush onto the ice and help Victor up. He lurches and sways as they escort him off. He can’t disguise the agony from the limp leg that hangs twisted at an awkward angle underneath him.

Solemn is the only word to describe the hushed crowd as people filter out of the stadium and Victor is rushed to the hospital in an ambulance.

Chris thinks cruelly of what would have happened if he had made the fatal mistake one night earlier.

  


Victor’s accident serves as a stark reminder that they aren’t dewey-eyed youngsters anymore. Chris’ time as a competitive skater will come to a close before he knows it. If he wants to win David through winning the Final, he better start acting now.

Apparently, Chris was right all of those years ago when he pinpointed Victor as the one thing holding him back from medaling. With Victor out of the game for months after the accident, he doesn’t make the Grand Prix Final. But a Final without Victor isn’t a final at all. The other skaters feel it too, all six performing less than their best during the competition.

Chris receives bronze, even though he knows he deserves fourth place. Still, it’s a step further towards his goals, and reminds him why he started skating in the first place. During the awards ceremony, he imagines standing two podiums higher, scanning the crowd and capturing a set of dark blue eyes in his. It would be David, and he would meet him at the banquet later that night to congratulate him. Then Chris would kiss him, and get his number before anything else, and they'd make it work.

A naive fantasy, sure, but one that drives him nonetheless.

The thing that he's most excited about is that this year he finally gets to skate his exhibition. He helped choreograph the song so that it perfectly represented how he felt about David. There's the innocent meeting in youth, then the loss of innocence. The longing from afar, then meeting again, only to have David cruelly ripped out of his hands. It ends on a hopeful note, like Chris tantalizing David: _I'm yours. Come and get me_.

  


The next time he sees David it is most definitely not the way he imagined it. David’s too soon, too _early_ (like always) and Chris hasn’t evolved enough. While he has grown as a skater and as a lover since they last met, he isn’t ready to see David.

Which is ironic, since he spent the better part of the last six years yearning to see him again.

Chris arrives at the skating rink the day of his short program performance of the Grand Prix Final. Men’s singles goes last, so many of the other skaters not involved with this specific portion of the competition loiter around the rink after they compete. Ten minutes before warm-up, Chris is walking back from the bathroom when he sees a girl- American, a pair skater who didn’t perform so well earlier that day. To her side stands a young man with a familiar mop of brown hair and dark blue eyes.

_David._

He notices how their hands latch together, how she leans in closely to David instinctively, and the betrayal sucker-punches him in the gut, knocking the breath out of him. He tries to turn around so that he can breakdown elsewhere, but David notices him before he can.  

“Chris!” he yells enthusiastically, dragging the girl over to Chris. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

Chris nods mildly, bewildered. Taking a deep breath, he tries to quell his anger. “It’s… nice to see you again, David.” He smirks cockily even though his mind is screaming in panic. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Six years,” David affirms. He chuckles nervously, like he’s afraid Chris will reveal something.

Well, fuck him. How dare he parade that half-rate pair skater in front of him, after all Chris went through?

“Last time I saw you, you didn’t even say goodbye,” he complains languidly. “Off like a lover on the run, you could say.”

David frowns as he catches on to what Chris is doing. Clearing his throat, he says, “Do you, uh, have you met Elena?” His voice shows almost no sign of its once heavy Swiss accent. This delivers another blow to Chris’ chest, the last straw that proves the man in front of him is not even a fragment of the young and cheerful boy he once was.

Chris shakes his head, and David introduces the girl next to him as his girlfriend, Elena Roman, a skater stationed in New Brunswick, New Jersey where he lives.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Chris drawls. He shakes her hand briefly and asks David, “How long have you been together?”

Instead of answering him, David’s face burns. Elena says, “Seven years.”

Chris’ eyebrows rise straight up to hairline before he can stop them as he does the mental math. Seven years. Which means that, six years ago when they made love in an encounter that literally changed his life, David was _with_ someone. Chris realizes Elena is likely the one who called him that night. The reason David was in town that week.

The reason David left, that morning. He can’t bring himself to hate her, though. Because it isn’t her fault, really. It’s David’s.

David and Elena take turns explaining the dull story of how they met. David became invested in ice-skating while watching Chris, and met her at a local competition. Which means- however unintentionally- Chris is partly responsible for their relationship in the first place.

He pushes the sour thought from his mind as panic creeps in through his spine. He needs to get out of there before he starts to scream. “Excuse me,” he says in a voice much more put-together than he is, “My warm-up times is soon.”

David nods solemnly. “Hey, promise you’ll do great tonight.”

Chris throws him a look as he walks away. He hears Elena remark to David, “I didn’t know you knew Christophe Giacometti.”

David replies nonchalantly, “I knew him once, when we were kids. No big deal.”

He mentions nothing of their night together, of course. Chris _knew him_ more than once that night _alone_.

That night he performs worse than he ever has at a grand prix final. He feels Victor Nikiforov’s pitiful eyes scalding him and he can't even bare to flirt with the ice like he always does, just knowing that David is holding someone else's hand in the audience, fucking some girl at night and whispering things between the sheets his ears aren't privy to.

He must be a pathetic sight, despondent anguish evident in every flubbed jump, missed combination. After receiving his worst short program score in years, he sulks to the bathroom to try and calm down. He lets his feelings out in the empty room, his heavy breaths bouncing off the wall and echoing alongside the sporadic _drip, drip, drip_ of a leaky faucet.

Once he calms himself down, he walks out of the stall and to the sink, where he splashes cold water in his face. He doesn’t notice Victor leaning against the wall behind him until he turns around to leave, jumping at the unexpected company.

“Victor,” he gasps, drawing back in surprise. “I didn’t see you.”

“Never mind that,” Victor says, approaching Chris and coming uncomfortably close to the other skater. “Where the hell were you tonight?”

Chris sighs. “Everyone in the world watched me fail tonight, Victor. You were there. You saw.”

He tries to step past Victor and leave, but the Russian skater steps in front of him. Rolling his eyes, he says, “You know what I meant. That man out there tonight wasn’t you.”

Chris scowls. “I promise you, it was.”

“Bullshit,” Victor spits.

He looks ferocious, serious in a way Chris isn’t used to seeing off the ice. He wonders if he misjudged Victor. He doesn’t seem at all like the airhead he appears to be.

“The Chris I competed against mesmerized the audience with sexuality and passion. Where is he?” continues Victor, looking hard into Chris’ eyes.  

Chris stares back. “He doesn’t exist!” he spits back. Anger boils in his stomach, anger and frustration, like tar in his intestines. “And fuck you! I’ve never even come close to beating you once! The only time I ever _medalled_ was because you broke your fucking leg and weren’t there. Don’t pretend you care so much. I’m just another faceless skater you could beat with your eyes closed.”

Victor’s eyebrows furrow together and he counters with a resolve twice as fierce. “You’re wrong. There’s never been a season where you haven’t grown significantly. Frankly, I’m insulted that you think I put so little effort into being where I am today. And do you really--” his countenance breaks, and he continues quietly, “Do you really think I would have let you fuck me if I didn’t find you enthralling?”

For this, Chris has no words. He tries to wrap his head around what Victor has just said, but finds the whole situation unbelievable. Finally, he pulls himself together enough to say, “Why do you care, Victor? I’m competition.”

Victor looks down and sighs. The brief moment of passionate anger has passed. He steps back so Chris can leave and says, “Because it wouldn’t be a real competition if I didn’t.”

As he hears them, Chris knows the words will stay with him forever, just like he knew when he first met David. Lint on a sweater.

He straightens. “You can still pull it together, you know? Put whatever freaked you out so much that you faltered behind you. Grow from it. I don’t know. I’ll still beat you by a long shot, but I’ll sleep better at night knowing you didn’t go home humiliated.”

Chris snorts, nods, and walks away. Just before he exits the bathroom, he turns around and says to Victor, “I’m going to beat you one day, you selfish asshole. You may be talented, but you’ll never care about anyone but yourself.”

While his words are harsh, there isn’t any malice in them because they’re true. Victor almost smiles then.

Chris opens the door and leaves, not looking back.

  


He earns fifth place after his free skate, beating sixth place by nearly forty points. Not the victory he’d hoped for this season and the ones before it, but it proves something else.

In the end, Victor was right. It’s high time for him to stop defining his career with David and start skating in terms of _Chris._ Chris thinks about what Victor said- _Put whatever freaked you out so much that you faltered behind you. Grow from it_ \- and really thinks about how he can apply that to his next season in his 24th year of life.

He knows he’s sexy. He knows he’s alluring. He knows he’s attractive enough to not only entice David when he was in a relationship, but _Victor Nikiforov himself_.

But David doesn’t get to have him. He doesn’t get to receive Chris’ total unwavering love and affection and only give a part of himself back. It isn’t fair.

And so David becomes his inspiration again.The passionate sexual love that once entranced the world transforms to passionate sexual _anger_ . Every time he lands a quadruple Lutz, or masters a step sequence, he imagines David watching from the audience and thinking that Chris is untouchable, the hand clutching Elena’s itching to hold _him_. He wants to make David regret using him.

That year is his best by a landslide. The anger invigorates him. He even scores silver in one of his events in the Grand Prix Series- Skate America, he notes smugly. Of course, Victor isn’t present for this, but it’s still higher than he’s used to. He wins silver in the Trophee de France, and advances on to the Final easily.

He scores silver with a whopping 301.46 points. Standing on the podium higher than he ever has elevates him to the extreme, but he still finds himself yearning for more. He wants to be even _higher_ on the podium.

The frustrating thought of dissatisfaction hits him full-force at the Grand Prix banquet as he realizes the toll being constantly angry took on him. Every high eventually crashes lower still, and he is just so _exhausted._

So he allows himself to relax, let down the barrier a bit. He tries to mingle with the other skaters and old men alike, but only ends up feeling more exhausted than before with their endless talk of the Worlds, next season, and endorsement deals. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices someone who looks even more miserable and uncomfortable than he does.

Yuuri Katsuki, the newcomer skater who fell his way to last place in the competition. Yuuri has been lingering around the drink station for the last thirty minutes, and is thoroughly hammered as a result. The drunk and awkward man gazes forlornly at Victor and the Junior gold medalist, Yuri Plisetsky, in a familiar way that evokes images of a younger Chris, eighteen years old at his own first Final, loitering about and trashing Victor in his jealousy.

Chris decides to help Yuuri have a little fun.

He approaches him at the drinking station and quips, “You’d better leave some for the rest of us.” He picks up one of the few glasses left and sips. “I’ve heard Victor gets quite testy if without his alcohol.”

Yuuri snaps around to face Chris. He looks bewildered. “Really? Oh, man, I’ve drunk so _many glasses_ now. He’s never going to like me. Yuri was right, I am a loser…”

Chris raises his eyebrows. Apparently young Yuuri has a crush. “Relax, Yuuri. I’m sure Victor will love you.” He looks at the glass, feigning nonchalance, and an idea forms in his mind. “Sounds like our Junior champ seriously disrespected you. You took ballet when you were young, didn’t you? You know how to dance?”

Yuuri nods eagerly. “Yeah!”

“Well,” Chris starts grandly, gesturing to the open floor in the center of the room. “I say you show them all what you’re really capable of.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “You mean I should… start dancing? That would work?” He sets his jaw and loosens his tie. “I’m gonna do it,” he slurs. He stops a waiter and asks for a whole bottle of the champaign. The waiter hesitantly brings one out, explaining that it would be charged to his room. Yuuri grabs the bottle and gives it one large chug. “Thanks, Christophe,” Yuuri says, swaying. “I’m gonna show that Russian punk that-” he burps, “That my step sequences are better than his, and I’m older than him, and I can dance.”

Chris assumes the “Russian punk” is the other Yuri. Grinning wildly, he responds, “I’ll put on some music.”

Yuuri ends up challenging Yuri Plisetsky to a dance off, and wins, surprisingly enough. Who knew Katsuki was skilled in the art of breakdancing? He makes sure to snap as many pictures as possible.

When Chris gets drunk enough, he can’t resist the fun. He finds a stable metal bowl and shamelessly uses it to pole dance, stripping down almost completely. Yuuri Katsuki joins him a few minutes later and they both captivate and horrify the banquet guests.

A few minutes later, when he joyously views Yuuri talking to his idol, he knows his work there is done.

In a brief moment of pettiness, Chris hopes the pictures will be leaked online.

  


Three months later, Chris heads to the World Championship, hoping to at least receive silver. If he can do it at the Grand Prix Final, then he can do it at the Worlds.

He notes smugly that Elena Roman did not make the championship. He wonders if David will still watch him perform. A part of him hopes he does.

Victor blows the competition out of the water, of course. Chris, while he really has no chance of winning overall, holds his own. The gap between them is closing, and this time Victor leads by only five points. A newcomer teenager from Kazakhstan snags bronze.

At the post-season press conference, Victor, Chris, and the newcomer, Otabek Alton, sit lined in a row while the media interrogates them.

First come the standard questions, about plans for next season and long term goals. Of course the spotlight shines primarily on Victor, the newly crowned champion of five consecutive World Championships.

A lively woman reporter in the second row asks him, “What do you have in mind for next season?”

Victor places a hand on his chin, and gazes down thoughtfully, bordering on perturbed. It suddenly occurs to Chris that Victor is nearing the end of his competitive figure skating days; as the years rack on, it becomes increasingly easy to injure oneself. No one wants to be the skater whose career was ended by a small mistake.

Still, this is _Victor_. The invincible king of skating. The man who Chris still needs to beat. The source of his motivation. The idea of Victor leaving seems impossible, intangible. But he knows the day must come.

Victor gives no response. Chris tries to dispel the thought from his mind.

The press moves on to more personal things next, like inspiration for their programs or surprising moments of the past season. Victor gives transparent responses when asked about his free skate, saying something along the lines of wanting a unique spin on an old skating tradition, what with his personally commissioned operatic aria.

Chris speaks Italian. He knows the song is about a man crying out for his male lover, and thinks Victor probably was coached to downplay the gay factor- it isn’t well received in Russia, after all. As for the subject matter, maybe Victor commissioned the song as a tribute to his future lover.

Otabek offers very little of himself to the press. He swings any personal question directed at him back towards the ice. The one thing he lets escape is his love and thankfulness for his country. Chris understand he’s heralded as a national hero in Kazakhstan.

As for Chris himself, he tries to answer the questions as honestly as he can. He’s never been a good actor. The many years he spent losing competitions when he had no true inspiration show this.

An outspoken American reporter standing towards the back says, “Chris, all of your fans- including me- are exceptionally excited to see how far you made it this year. I believe I’m not wrong when I say that something changed for you prior to this season that altered the way you skate. Care to elaborate on this?”

Chris nods, thinking. He feels Victor’s sly eyes on him, and remembers their discussion in the bathroom last year. Surely Victor is curious about what happened as well. Choosing his words carefully, he says, “What used to be the source of my motivation let me down, I suppose. I let emotion overwhelm me, and it destroyed on performance completely. But after receiving some advice from a close friend,” he lightly presses his leg against Victor’s so the other man knows he’s referring to him, “I decided to make something of it. I channelled all of that emotion into self-expression in my performance. And I believe that’s what changed this year.”

The reporter smiles. The rest of the media continue to badger Victor with questions until at last the press conference ends and Chris heads back to the hotel to pack his luggage and then catch up on some much-needed rest after the most draining season he’s ever had. As he’s exiting the lobby of the building, he feels a light tap on his shoulder.

He turns around, and there he is. David Buchanan.

Speak of the Devil, and he may enter.

But Chris doesn’t have the energy for the emotional rollercoaster that always seem to follow David’s reappearance and subsequent disappearance. David always changes his life in some small way, but it’s impossible to predict how.

Well, Chris is tired of not being able to control his own destiny.

“David,” he says tightly. “Lovely to see you. Why are you here? Your girlfriend didn’t make it. I checked.”

David frowns. This obviously isn’t how he thought it would go. “Elena and I broke up months ago. Anyway, I came to see you. I hoped that maybe we could reconnect.”

“Lovely. Thanks for your support,” spits Chris.

He turns to leave, but David stops him with a hand. “Wait,” he says, and Chris stops, hating himself every second he doesn’t spend walking away. “I saw you up there,” he admits cautiously.

Huffing, Chris asks, “My performance? Or the press conference?”

“Well, both,” David says. He remove his hand tentatively from Chris’ shoulder, like he’s afraid Chris will bolt. “But the press conference, in particular. I heard what you said, about inspiration and losing your inspiration, and I wanted to ask…” he trails off. Swallowing, he continues, “That wasn’t about me, was it?”

All the anger comes rushing back to him, but it’s not the frustrated anger that fuelled his last season. It’s damaged anger. The justifiable spite of the defeated and wronged. The onset of tears sting his eyes.

Chris sneers. “Why would you think that, _old friend_?”

David recoils at the unexpected venom in Chris’ words. “I don’t know. I thought maybe, after what happened last year at the final, you were mad. Or hurt. Or something.”

Raising an eyebrow, Chris asks, “What _did_ happen at the Final, last year, David?” He huffs. “Do you remember? Or do I mean that little to you?”

David looks bewildered and exasperated. “Look, I’m sorry I said anything. And if I hurt you in some way--” he puts a hand to his forehead and looks down, “then I’m sorry for that, too. Just--” he slides a small piece of paper in Chris’ hand. “If you ever want to talk about it, promise you’ll call me, okay?”

Now it is David who leaves. Chris watches as he walks away, blood still boiling and muscles still tense. How many months has he wanted to confront David? How many years did we yearn to have David’s number, a possible way to contact him?

He throws the paper to the bottom of his bag and tries to push David from his mind.

There’s no fulfillment. Rather than filling him with passion, the encounter only leaves him hollow.

  


Just when Chris thinks the world can’t get any bleaker, fate proves him wrong once again. Then the skating world is torn in two when Victor Nikiforov announces his resignation from competitive figure skating to coach Yuuri Katsuki.

Chris wasn’t so off-mark when in his conjectures last year at the press conference. But he didn’t expect it to happen this soon, and for this reason. For Victor to abandon the ice so quickly like that… Perhaps Chris and Victor aren’t as similar as he thought.

He always thought that when he won, it would be the result of finally beating Victor. Just once, he wants to be number one. He’s never been first in anything-- not ballet, not skating, and certainly not in David’s life. Even if he wins this season, he still won’t be the best, because Victor will still be out there. Taunting him. Tantalizing him.

The irony never ceases to bite as he thinks back on all of the promises he made to himself and David, so vivid and paramount in their youth, only to fade with the cruel drag of time. Life and Destiny leached David from his mind so subtly he never even noticed until David was already gone. Things would be so different now, if only Chris didn’t start so slowly. Never did he drag or fall into a slump for too long, not like David used to. But simple growth never seems to be enough.

With Victor gone and David indeterminate, Chris can already feel the motivation draining from his system. So why will he live, this season? What will he skate for? Himself, he supposes. It’s high time he learned to skate for himself. To live for himself.

He doesn’t have much time left. Chris must make the most of this season, however boring it might be. He must beat Yuuri Katsuki to bring Victor back to skating.

  


The season starts out slow, like expected. Predictably, a season without Victor is like a winter without snow and Chris finds it difficult to do anything right. He rushes quads, under-rotates Axels, and tends to completely ignore his music.

“Go at your _own pace_ ,” Josef keeps repeating to Chris. Soon, the intermittent period between seasons ends, and the Grand Prix Series begins.

Chris watches the first competition, Skate America, as it happens. The Worlds bronze medalist from last year places second, and so does Phichit Chulanont, a kind-hearted Thai skater Chris knows only by reputation. In the second event, Skate Canada, that loudmouth JJ Leroy wins, with the small Russian kid Yuuri Katsuki dance-battled at last year’s Final banquet places second. He stands on the podium stone faced, not even touching his medal, giving the impression of insult at not placing higher.

The third event, Chris is assigned to compete in: the Cup of China.

He watches raptly from the audience as Yuuri Katsuki, third to perform, steps onto the ice. An intrigued eagerness hangs on the crowd like fog as everyone anticipates what sort of program Victor Nikiforov’s pupil will give.

Victor places a hand on Yuuri’s over the barricade, and says some quick unintelligible words, inaudible even though he stands right in front of him. Yuuri wraps his fingers around Victor’s and places their foreheads together, responding quickly, without giving Victor time to react before skating away to his opening position.

Yuuri’s theme comes as a punch in the gut to Chris as he feels certain Victor suggested it in direct response to his own strong suit in sexuality. Yuuri, in his expressive skating and intricate step sequences, gives the impression of a young and inexperienced lover coercing an older someone with daring and somewhat tentative sensuality. A completely different brand of _eros_ than Chris's. And a completely different brand of _Yuuri_ than anyone expects.

Yuuri planned all of his jumps for the second half of his program, apparently. He makes the first one, a triple Axel with height comparable to Chris's soaring quad Lutz, and amazingly makes the quad Salchow. Chris'd hoped he would flub the jump, as Yuuri rarely landed it in competition, but no such luck. A few seconds later, Yuuri again lands a quad-triple toe loop combination. This in itself isn't too surprising, as Yuuri never had much issue with toe loops. But his consistent confidence surprises Chris.

Of course it does. Victor's Yuuri's coach, after all.

He's totally different from last year, Chris thinks. Yuuri strikes his ending pose with uncharacteristic confidence, having delivered a flawless performance.

Victor looks amazed. “That was perfect,” he breathes, and outstretches his arms towards the ice. “Yuuri!”

“The kiss and cry's that way,” Chris points, and Victor runs to meet his skater.

Victor waves and blows kisses at the camera while Yuuri waits anxious next to him. He scores a new personal best of 106.84.

Chris's mouth twists into a sour scowl. Defeating Yuuri won't be as easy as he originally thought.

“You don't look amused, Chris,” comments Josef from beside him. “Maybe you don't need Victor to skate against after all.”

Perhaps this is a good thing. He’d thought it was going to be a boring season without Victor to compete against. But Yuuri could turn out to be a worthy opponent.

After the American Leo de la Iglesia performs, it's Chris's turn. He briefly embraces Josef as his fans shriek from the audience. He glides to the center of the rink, winking at one of his fans- a middle-aged Japanese woman Yuuri Katsuki brought with him- and assumes his opening pose with vigor and desire coursing through his body. He thought

His music starts to play, lightly plucked strings and ringing bells that ooze sex. Too bad for Yuuri mature _eros_ is his specialty.

He flubs his first jump, turning his signature Quad Lutz into a triple. But this doesn't bother Chris so much. He'll take it slow and peak in the Grand Prix Final. His hands breeze over his body venereally, trying to rival Yuuri's powerful innocent sexuality. Chris may be the only one in the world who can. Even Yuuri's very own coach Victor unraveled at his very touch.

He yearns to challenge Yuuri through his performance, show him how little he knows, his much he has to learn. He puts twice as much _eros_ into the performance, arousing even himself.

By the end of his performance as he heaves with breath in the deafening room, he knows he succeeded in seducing everyone in the audience, even his his technical score ended up lower than usual. He feels proud of himself for his personal evolution as a skater-- it doesn't seem so long ago that he struggled to find inspiration for himself at all, or clung desperately to a childhood promise. Yuuri's not the only one who changed.

A commentator asks how he feels about his current standing of fifth place.

“I'm confident in my free program,” he responds. She nods, and he adds wryly, “Plus, I'm good at coming from behind.”

He must perform well in his free skate in order to advance onto the Final, even though he commonly struggles to retain the focus of his short program into his free skate. He goes over his choreography countless times in his head before he goes on the ice, making sure his brain cements every exact detail.

His placement means he performs his free skate second, after Guang-Hong Ji, who is subsequently disqualified from the Final.

“Alright, Chris,” Josef hugs him warmly and reassures, “You know what to do. Like I keep saying, go at your own pace and you'll be fine.”

Chris nods solemnly, thankful for his never-ending support and open-mindedness.

His program is thoroughly difficult, starting his program with three quads. He lands his first quadruple Lutz with all the practiced skill he put into learning the jump all those years ago with David cheering him on. After the jumps success, Josef smiles with pride from the sideline.

As he goes through the moves, he thinks back to the first time he met Victor, the man who had always when first to his second-best. With Victor out of the running, Chris should be first now. He can't allow _Yuuri Katsuki_ , of all people, to surpass him.

He skates beautifully. The performance is perfect, exquisite, really. Josef sits nexts to Chris in the kiss and cry and laughs jovially as he receives a total score of 283.81, placing him in front of Guang-Hong Ji by a wide margin.

After Chris, Phichit Chulanont skates a program scoring less than a point higher than Chris’s, pushing him out of first place and into second. Chris doesn’t pay this much mind; the other skaters would be hard-pressed to boot him out of the top three. As he predicted, the other skaters fall short of Chris’ final score by at least 50 points. Yuuri Katsuki will decide what placement Chris receives at the end of the event.

The performance is a frantic mess- Yuuri flubs several jumps and looks like he slept for thirty minutes a week ago, but somehow the chaos contorts into entertainment, and when he finishes his performance, the audience roars with delight.

More excited than anyone in the room is Victor. The two magnetize together. At the gate, Yuuri says something excitedly, still hyped up on adrenaline. Instead of answering him, Victor throws his head back with laughter, and tackles Yuuri with a kiss.

The whole stadium stops to gasp. Chris simply sighs and curls his lips into a tight smile, unsurprised because now everything makes sense. Why Victor quit to coach Yuuri. Why Yuuri performs _love_ so well. Why as a pair they are almost impenetrable. In a sense.

Victor is enamored with Yuuri, and vice versa. Anyone can see that now.

Suddenly the idea of beating Yuuri to bring Victor back into the game seems much less likely. Not because Victor won't leave Yuuri-- which is true, but Yuuri has proven himself a force to reckon with. His brand of eros will always beat Chris's, because he possesses what Chris has never.

The realization makes Chris a little melancholy. For nine years he's made the theme of his skating that of Yuri's, but never once has he had the object of his affection sitting next to him at the kiss and cry. Never once has the source of his Eros seen a single body touch, lustful glance, or quadruple Lutz and known it was for him.

Victor knew. Victor knew they both were missing something when he let Chris fuck him, and he knew when he cornered Chris in the bathroom and knocked sense into him. Victor knew, and now so does Chris. Inspiration cannot be static. Inspiration a cannot be a memory, fading with time.

He was foolish to think that it could ever _not_ be David. Even when it was Victor, it was David. Chris is getting older. He doesn't have much time left in the skating world. How many years has he wasted pining, then holding a petty grudge?

He's very tired.

  
  


When he arrives back to his hotel room following the awards ceremony, where Yuuri Katsuki beats him by a mere point, he empties his Zuca bag completely on the white hotel bed. Notes, flower petals, and receipts litter the down comforter, and a few minutes pass of him routing through the mess before he finds what he seeks. A scrap of paper, a crinkled yellow sticky note with dirt stuck to the adhesive and lightly applied pencil. He never read it before tonight.

_David. Please call me, Chris._

_(603) 663 1217_

Chris impatiently enters the digits into his phone and waits as the line rings, his heart pounding wildly.

On the second to last ring, the phone suddenly picks up and a sleepy voice answers, “Hello? This is David.”

Chris mentally does the math. He figures it must be around 8 in the morning in New Jersey. He momentarily loses the ability to speak. While he grapples for something to say, David grows impatient.

“Hello?” he repeats. “Look, if this is a prank, I'm going to hang--”

“No, wait!” Chris cries, jumping onto his feet.

“Chris? Is that you?” David asks warily.

Backtracking, Chris answers, “Yes. If I called at the wrong time…”

“No, no,” David says. “I suppose this is a fine time. I needed to get out of bed anyway.” He yawns. “I didn't expect you to call, after what happened at the World Championship. That's all.”

A mattress creaks and shifts as David presumably sits up. Chris paces his hotel room, etching a path into the carpet from the front door to the small corner desk.

“I know,” Chris says. He swallows. “I'm sorry for that. I was--” Jealous? Hurt? Tired? How could he put everything he'd felt for the last fifteen years into words? “--out of line,” he finishes lamely.

“While I appreciate the apology, you still didn't have to call,” David says, sounding a bit frustrated. “You had every right to be cross towards me.”

Chris will decipher _that_ comment later. Right now, the record must be set straight. “No, I did have to call you,” he maintains, “You handed me your number and said, ‘I'm sorry for whatever I did. If you want to talk about it, promise to call me.” He's paraphrasing, but the point is made.

After a moment of silence, David says, “So do you want to talk about it?”

Chris thinks. “I don't know,” he confesses.

More silence. Then, “So what _do_ you know?”

“I know that…” he starts slowly. He swallows. “I've made a lot of promises to you over the years. And I tried to keep them. But I can't do it forever, right? Just know that I tried.”

It's not something he ever imagined saying to David, in his thousands of fantasies. He's not even sure it was the right thing to say. But the words exist now, and can't be taken back. And somehow Chris is at peace with this.

It takes a moment for David to respond. “I forgot,” he finally says. “I guess I do that, but I didn't realize. I'm sorry.”

His blatant disregard stings, but what's new? Chris tries not to blame David too much, to fight back that part of him that feels before he thinks and then fixates on that feeling.

“I know you didn't,” Chris replies softly. “But you were always the reason I skated. So I had to tell myself something.”

“I think I understand,” David says. He exhales briefly. Chris can hear him moving plates around, and the sound of water running. “Do you know what I do for a living, Chris?”

The question sounds slightly condescending, but David means nothing by it. To tell the truth, Chris never thought about it. To him, David only existed in the moments they were together. David in the context of the adult world, working 9-to-5 and paying bills and buying groceries seems foreign. Too domestic for the enigma Chris's mind made him out to be.

“You never told me,” says Chris.

David says, “I'm a marriage counselor. Or I will be, once I finish my Master's.” He laughs once bitterly. “It's my job to be empathetic and solve relationship problems, but I single-handedly destroyed our relationship, didn't I?”

Chris's legs grow shaky. He takes a seat on his bed next to the forgotten pile of trash.

“I want to fix this,” continues David. “Tell me how I can.”

The request stumps Chris for a moment. He goes over every piece of hurt in his mind. What simple thing could remedy the fifteen years of scars on his heart?

“Just promise me that you'll be there,” Chris decides.

After a moment, David responds, “I can do that.”

And just like that, a decade-old weight lifts off of Chris's shoulders and he breathes easy for the first time in years. He leans back on the bed, closing his eyes. “Okay,” he breathes. “Promise.”

“Okay,” David echoes. “I promise, on one condition. You make it to the Grand Prix Final this year, and I'll be there.”

A bout of laughter escapes his chest unexpectedly. “I can do that,” he answers sincerely. “You'd better follow through. And I want to hear about Elena when I see you. And why you never called me.”

“You will,” David vows. “I know it's late in China. You should get some sleep.”

“No promises,” Chris says. David laughs, bids him goodnight, and hangs up the phone.

Chris doesn't get much sleep. His mind is far too busy for that. Instead he lays on his bed and stares at the ceiling, the goal in front of him more tangible than ever before.

  


He wins the Trophee de France, beating Oskar Uhlig and Georgi Popovich by a margin of twenty points with a performance better than anything he’d done all season. Without a doubt, Chris qualifies for the final. He was wrong when he guessed he’d have no motivation this season. And while he knows he’ll be hard-pressed to perform that well at the Grand Prix Final, he keeps pushing forwards towards the next time he’ll see David.

He texts a picture of himself with the gold medal to David. David responds by sending him his flight time.

David meets him in Switzerland the day before he takes off. Chris picks him up from the airport and takes them to a small cafe a few blocks from his apartment, where David will stay tonight until they leave for Barcelona in the morning.

They chat idly for a few minutes, familiarizing themselves with each other. Soon, though, it feels like no time at all has passed since they were childhood best friends, two boys who just happened to stand next to each other at the barre. The two discuss their intermittent separation, and trade stories of Madame Candise-- who still to this day terrorizes young Swiss children with her ballet lessons.

The tone turns much more sober when Chris finally says, “Come on now. Tell me why you never called once you went for America.”

David nods and puts his coffee down on the table in front of them. Shrugging, he says, “Believe me, I wanted to talk to you. But it took a few weeks until we finally had a landline installed.” He shrugs, looking down. “By that time, it was too late. A week after I left, I begged my mom to take me to a phone booth to call you. She asked me to wait a week until we had service. I told her I couldn’t wait, and I needed to tell you I loved you.” He laughs coldly. “I didn’t really know what I was saying, but she forbid me to talk to you after that because she thought that I was gay.”

“But you are gay,” Chris points out, raising an eyebrow wryly. “I had hickeys that proved it. And a stained jacket from when _someone_ came too early.”

David chuckles and picks his drink back up, leaning forward. “Well, I prefer the term _bisexual_ , but yeah, I guess. I don’t know, I was just ten and I missed my best friend. I didn’t take the time to figure myself out until much later, and by that point it was too late.” David looks embarrassed. Things feel normal and sweet, but tension still exists between the two of them. It’s fading, but it’s there.

Chris purses his lips. “Right. You were with Elena.”

“I’m not anymore,” David argues, trying to digress.

“But you were then,” Chris retorts. He takes a deep breath and settles back down. “Anyway, you’re right. You’re not with her anymore. What happened?”

Frowning, David looks away. “After seeing you last year, I felt guilty for downplaying our relationship in front of her. It wasn’t fair to you, I knew that. I think I also knew that it would hurt you to see her. So I took the path of self-destruction. That night, I told her we slept together,” he admits. It’s obviously hard for him to talk about, the wounds still fresh in his mind. “She got mad that I cheated on her, but she was willing to work passed it, providing that I was over you.” He shrinks back into his chair timidly, but then bravely looks Chris straight in the eye. “I told her I wasn’t.”

His words steal the breath from Chris’s throat and his eyes widen. For the first time in a long time, Chris doesn’t have the upper hand. He’s on the edge of his seat. “You still…”

David nods miserably. “I know that after all that’s happened, you don’t feel the same way, and that’s okay--” he puts his hands up in surrender. “You don’t owe me anything, I know I'm probably too late. I just needed to get that off my chest, alright? I like you. I’ve always liked you.”

It dawns on Chris that this is probably what David wanted to talk about last March. He shakes his head in disbelief. “After all this time, thinking that I needed to _seduce you_ ,” he murmurs. Then he laughs, straightens, and says, “David, you fucking oblivious, early idiot, that’s all I’ve wanted to hear from you for the past fifteen fucking years.”

  


That night, they lie next to each other in Chris’s queen bed, not doing much besides holding hands and speaking idly. The television plays softly in the background behind their packed suitcases, belated footage of the Rostelecom Cup, but they pay it no attention.

“Do you think you'll win?” asks David.

Chris scoffs. “I'd like to think so, but it won't be easy. That brat from Russia is already setting records, and the obnoxious Canadian won both of his events. But who knows?” He shrugs and turns over to look at David in the dim light. “I'll go down kicking and screaming, that's for sure.”

David nods. Chris's resolve is less from confidence in himself, and more from the reassurance that he doesn't _have_ to win to get David's attention. He's here and Chris already has it. Just in time, too. This might be one of his last seasons. He'll make it special.

“Tell me about the other skaters,” David requests. “Which ones are your friends?”

Chris purses his lips, because David doesn't understand that _friends_ isn't the right word at all. Contemporaries, maybe. Competition, for sure. “I don't know,” he says. “The closest thing to a friend is Victor.”

“He means a lot to you,” David guesses. He doesn't sound malicious, or jealous. Only observant.

Chris shrugs. “We do have a history, yes,” he admits. “I suppose he helped fill the gap during your absence. But I never meant much to him, and he never meant much to me.”

“Still,” David maintains. “He means something to you.” He looks over to meet Chris's eyes. “If I had to guess, I'd say he means as much to you as I do.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Chris teases. Then he sobers and says, “That is true. But in a completely different way. I don't want to mislead you, I slept with him, yes. But Victor and I have been rivals for as long as I can remember. Other skaters would come and go from the Final, but we would always be there.”

“It must be weird not competing against him this year,” comments David. He shifts slightly on his back.

Chris hums. “It is. I originally thought the season would be boring, victory a complete steal without Victor. But even when he's not on the ice, Victor makes things interesting.”

“Are you talking about that Japanese skater? Yuuri something-or-another?”

Nodding Chris responds, “If you told me at last year's Final that my biggest competition this year would be Yuuri Katsuki and a Russian _child_ , I would have laughed in your face. Victor brings out the best in all of us, but especially Yuuri. He's harbored feelings for Victor forever, and always skated Victor's routines the best.”

“Sounds familiar,” says David wryly. “The part about feelings and inspiration, at least. Sorry, go on.”

Chris elbows him lightly in the side, shooting him a sly look. “No, you're right,” he muses, “If it weren't for them, I likely would have never called you. It's not worth it to win solely for yourself. I think Victor always knew that, but I only realized it by seeing them. Yuuri always loved Victor, and used him for inspiration in his skating, but it never worked until Victor was there to receive his message.”

David is quiet for a moment, and Chris thinks perhaps he fell asleep, but then he murmurs, “That makes sense.” He squeezes Chris's hand and nothing more needs to bed said. They fall asleep like that, lying together.

  


The next morning, while Chris wakes up and organizes their things, David leaves briefly to pick up breakfast before their immediate departure for the airport. He suspects David has something planned, but can't be sure. When he returns earlier than planned (of course), he opens the door.

“We’re here,” David announces. “Ready to go?”

Chris picks up his cat. “You always come too early. You know that.”

He sets her back down and grabs his suitcase. “What do you mean by _we_?”

David smiles and escorts him down to the car, where sitting in the front seat is Madame Candise.

Chris’s mouth falls open. “You didn’t,” he deadpanned.

David nods. “I did,” he says humoredly. “When I knew I was coming, I called her to catch up. She said she wanted to see her ‘brightest pupil’ perform.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Still dramatic as ever,” he says, but inwardly he smiles. It feels like his life is coming full circle.

They make their flight to Barcelona with no problem. It’s late when they finally arrive. Chris and Josef are used to being jet-lagged, but their guests are not so much. While they sleep off the flight, Chris dons his skin-tight speedo, grabs a bottle of wine, and heads down to the pool to relax.

When he gets there, Victor is already submerged up to his nose in the water, looking a little blue from the cold weather, even though the water is heated.

“I figured that the Russian would be the only one stupid enough besides me to get into the pool this time of year,” he drawls as a greeting. “I guess I was right.”

Victor turns to Chris in surprise. “Chris!” he calls pleasantly.

“Hi, Coach Victor. And here I was hoping to go skinny dipping,” he teases.

Victor decides to play along. “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll even take pictures if you want,” he quips.

Chris poses with his drink, twisting and showing off while Victor takes photos and posts them to Instagram. They chat for a while. Chris complains about being the oldest skater in the competition, while Victor tells him of strange customs he encountered whilst living in Japan. The exchange is light-hearted and simple in a way he’s never experienced with Victor before. It’s nice, to just consider this man a friend and not a rival. It takes away pretenses.

Eventually, Victor and Chris leave the pool, freezing, and VIctor invites Chris up to his and Yuuri’s room to warm up. They laugh and banter all the way up the stairs, until reaching the room. Victor throws open the door to reveal a sleepy and slightly startled Yuuri Katsuki.

“Yuuri, I’m freezing! Will you draw me a hot bath?” Victor requests, shivering. “I can’t feel my toes!”

Chris nods along. “And while you’re at it, some coffee.”

Victor pauses. “You’re still asleep?” he asks, then exchanges a look with Chris. They nod together, and attack Yuuri in his bed.

Yuuri, screams in turn, begging them to get off of him. “You’re like human icicles!” he screeches. “Get off of me, both of you. I’m not a heating pad!”

It feels good to not have animosity towards Victor and Yuuri, Chris realizes. He doesn’t feel animosity towards any of the skaters anymore. It seems like his and David’s reconciliation cleansed him somehow.

This is affirmed later that night when he eats dinner with his competitors.

Yuuri Katsuki thinks it’s weird. “It’s a lot different than last year,” he remarks, and Chris knows the penny’s about to drop. “I was always on my own then, even at the banquet. I didn’t even have to courage to talk to Victor.”

Victor, in turn, chokes on his drink. “Are you seriously telling me you don’t remember?”

Yuuri just shakes his head, looking confused.

Chris decides it’s his time to fulfill his Godly duty. “At the banquet you got wasted on champagne and started dancing.” He doesn’t mention his role in the occasion. “Everyone was watching.”

Yuuri looks mortified, and Yuri Plisetsky just looks mad.

“It was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen!” he grates. “I got dragged into a dance off! It was humiliating.”

“A dance off?! You-you’re kidding,” Yuuri stutters. “Please say you’re kidding.”

Chris nods, having way too much fun with this. “It’s true. We danced with the pole and got naked. Well, mostly.”

Yuuri’s face turns even more red-- if that’s even possible-- when all the skaters who were present pull out their phones and show him the pictures they took. While Yuuri begs his sister and the other woman not to look, Chris notices a shiny ring on Yuuri’s hand.

He grins and leans on one hand. “So, what’s with the rings you boys are wearing?”

Yuuri tries to play it off as nothing, but Victor shows his own hand and sure enough, the rings match. Phichit immediately congratulates them on their marriage. Chris laughs at this, sure he overreacted. And judging by Yuuri’s quick denial, he’s right. But Victor quickly sets the record straight.

“Yes, you’ve got it wrong,” he says, showing his ring to the crowd. “This is actually an engagement ring. We’ll get married when he wins the gold medal. Right, Yuuri?”

Well. _That_ changes the mood. The skaters stop in their tracks as they ingest what Victor has just promised with disbelief and apprehension. JJ Leroy even chooses that moment to stop by the restaurant and assert _his_ dominance as a competitor. Whatever moment they were having before is ruined, and the group decides to head back to their hotel rooms for a much-needed night of sleep.

David wakes up for a little bit when Chris returns. “How was dinner?” he asks drearily.

“Fine,” Chris responds, changing out of his outfit into an old t-shirt and underwear. “Victor and Yuuri are going to get married if he wins this weekend.”

David makes a small noise of affirmation. “Then you’d better beat him, then.”

“I’m not sure I can,” admits Chris. “Even if he doesn’t win, that Russian brat’s program has a much higher difficulty than mine.”

“You’ll still be the hottest figure skater in the world to me, even if you lose,” David murmurs. “Don’t worry about it.” He falls back to sleep.

“Okay,” Chris replies. So he doesn’t.

  


So, in the end, he wins fifth. He remembers the last time he won fifth at a Grand Prix Final. So much has changed since then.

It doesn’t matter anymore, really, that his time is running out. Because he still has next year, and nothing good ever happened from thinking too far ahead. And now his inspiration _knows_ he’s there. Knows Chris skates only for him, and cheers his name during his performance, and holds his hand in the kiss and cry. For the first time, David sees his skating for what it truly is.

Even if Chris does wish it went better.

  


The story ends, as many stories do, at the bar.

He and David meet Yuuri, Victor, and Phichit at the small bar under their hotel for celebratory drinks. The other skaters seem surprised to meet the man behind Chris’ _eros_ but receive him with warmth anyway.

They discuss the future, particularly Victor’s descent back into skating and themes for next season.

“I’m thinking about changing my theme,” Chris confesses after his third glass of wine.

The others look shocked, David in particular.

“What, now I’m not good enough for you?” he teases, elbowing Chris lightly in the side.

Chris rolls his eyes and laughs. “Rest easy, all of you. I assure you that my sex appeal won’t suffer from a change of theme.”

“The idea feels strange,” Victor says. Yuuri, next to him, nods as he sips a glass of warm wine. “Sexual love has been your theme for what, ten years?”

“Nine,” Chris corrects. David grabs his hand covertly under the table

“Chris, what theme are you thinking of?” Phichit asks.

He ponders this for a moment. “I’m not sure at the moment,” he admits. “I just want a change. Love and sex are a bit overdone, don’t you think? No offense, Yuuri.” Yuuri shrugs, and Chris continues, “Maybe long-suffering. Hope. Promises.” He shrugs. “Who knows. The future is a long ways away.”

And who can guess what the future will bring? Chris can barely understand his past, wrought with promises he broke with David. But he thinks of all of the promises he _has_ kept over the years. Skating for David. Never giving up, for David. Remembering David. They vastly outnumber the promises he couldn’t fulfill.

In the present, David squeezes his hand lightly and shares a small but candid smile. Chris doesn’t know what will happen between them. Maybe they’ll get together maybe they won’t. But right now the small smile promises possibility, and in the end, that makes it all worthwhile.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ao3 fic, tho i've posted to fanfic.net for years. my user there is the goddess of percabeth. my tumblr is antspaul. feel free to drop a comment below or send me a message on tumblr if you enjoyed this, or have something else you want me to write, or if you want to hear the songs that the boys skate to (because they're all real!). it means a lot to hear from you all!!! have a lovely day xxxx


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